Lakeland Delights

          Last week, I was once again obliged to avail myself of the services of AA recovery, not on account of my drinking, but because my elderly campervan suffered a minor mechanical breakdown. Its auxiliary drive belt snapped while its engine was warming up to leave a campsite near Grange-over-Sands, the coastal resort on the southern fringe of the Lake District. Fortunately, the AA mechanic soon arrived and, while I hovered around, the occupant of a neighbouring campervan wandered by and asked what was up.

          We had spoken previously – a spontaneous, loose kinship often establishes itself between travellers who recognise mutual traits related to vans, walking boots and other lifestyle choices – so we were on “pleased to meet you” terms and might have become friends had we been permanent neighbours. He told me that he was celebrating his 50^th birthday by taking two weeks off to go solo hiking. Strangers sometimes reveal details of their lives within the first few sentences of an encounter, which can be intriguing. He told me something of his itinerary, then revealed that he had two young sons, who loved the van. Since I didn’t feel it appropriate to ask, I was left guessing whether marital estrangement and mid-life crisis were at the heart of his solo birthday celebration.

          Another thing I didn’t feel it appropriate to ask about was his ethnic heritage, which I guessed to be South Asian. Not that this was unusual, except that when it comes to camping and hiking in the countryside, the faces are almost exclusively of white European ethnicity. The long-overdue participation of other groups is to be celebrated as a small but significant step in progress towards deeper cultural integration and I wanted to say, “Well done!” and “Welcome!” but, of course, that would have been patronising, to say the least.

          Meanwhile, the mechanic, after rummaging about in his van, had found a replacement drive belt, an “extra strong” Volvo-designated part, but one that just happened to fit. I’m sure he was joking when he warned me solemnly that it cost £3 more than the standard component: he knew I would happily pay any price to resolve the problem. Soon, we were back on the road, driving into Grange for provisions. We walked along its extensive seafront, passing on the way a 1930s lido, which was boarded up in 1996. It was down but not out, as funds have been secured to rescue it from demolition. The lido is evidence of how Grange was transformed from fishing village to holiday resort by the advent of railways. But with its heyday long gone, it must appeal nowadays to a different sort of tourist. Just how different, soon became apparent.

          Driving out of town, we passed two young men hiking briskly along the road, which would not have been remarkable, but for the fact that they were Hassidic Jews, clad in traditional outfits, albeit without their long black coats. Admittedly, I know little about the leisure pursuits of the British Hassidic community, but I do know that, in 35 years of campervanning around the countryside, I have never encountered them there. I was even more astonished, therefore, when we rounded a bend and came to a crossroads, where fifty or so Hassidic boys were milling around a rabbi with a phone to his ear and a concerned expression on his face. I assumed he was trying to contact the two laggards we had just passed. Whatever. If this is cultural integration in action, let there be more of it.

          The next day, we drove homewards, mulling over the events of the past few days, while nervously listening for the snapping of drive-belts.

Canny Scots

          In one of the cooler inner suburbs of Glasgow, I found not only a sourdough bakery but also a comfortable looking coffee lounge where, reassured by the complement of young Apple Mac users at the tables, I decided to get my caffeine fix. When asked if I wanted sugar with my flat white, I declined (having ‘given it up’ back in 1972). The coffee, which was fine, came with what appeared to be a small biscuit on the saucer. I took a cautious nibble and almost spat it out, it was so sweet. “What is that?” I asked the waitress. “Oh, it’s tablet. It’s made with sugar and condensed milk. I know!” she said, regarding my horrified expression. To my taste, ‘tablet’ – like escargots or borscht – is one of those delicacies best reserved for natives and the incident was a hint that, despite the proliferation of foreign ways north of the border, a deep layer of cultural Scottishness persists. And long may it do so. It’s part of its attraction.

          It seems to me that Scotland’s political independence movement has a good case culturally, though its economic arguments may seem a bit wobbly. Currently, there is a halfway-house standoff that puts the English in unexpectedly ill-defined situations. Just before leaving home, the National Health Service offered me a vaccination appointment for the following week, at a centre of my choosing – except in Scotland. Likewise, in need of a repeat prescription during my travels, I find it is only possible to collect from a Scottish pharmacy with written authorisation from my doctor in England, by which time I’ll be back at home. What of this United Kingdom? Even my over-60s bus pass is invalid up here.

          My Senior Railcard, however, is valid and I used it for a day trip to Edinburgh this week. I won’t attempt to labour the differences between the neighbouring cities – each has its unique attractions – but I can recommend the National Portrait Gallery in Edinburgh to those who might appreciate a pictorial overview of Scottish history. In just an hour or so of wandering the galleries, one thing struck me above all else: the number of famous, celebrated, pioneering individuals of Scottish heritage seems out of proportion to the small population of the country (currently around 5.4 million). In every field of the arts and (especially) sciences, Scots have excelled to an extraordinary extent. The figures painted in procession on the four-sided frieze of the main hall represent an astonishing parade of individuals whose familiar names are associated with myriad advances in Western European culture. I am still reeling from the impact and speculating on how this came about. Could it be, perhaps, that a combination of a physically bracing northern climate and a mentally bracing form of Christianity played a part in stimulating the ambitions of the population?

          I also went to look around New Lanark, an 18^th century mill complex in the Clyde valley that is now a World Heritage site. It’s founder, David Dale, was a contemporary of Adam Smith and may have shared with him the notion of compassionate capitalism, in so far as he provided his workforce with housing, education and medical care within his village-cum-industrial development. There are examples of this form of paternalistic capitalism in England, Styal Mill in Cheshire, for example, but the scale of New Lanark is more ambitious.

          My on-the-spot evidence of the roots of Scots’ devout yet enterprising tendencies is, admittedly, anecdotal. It comprises an unusually high incidence of street proselytisers offering me free bibles and a chap in a kilt standing outside the big, swish Apple store with a signboard proclaiming “Quicker Apple Repairs. SimplyFixit. 11 Bath Street (Left at Rolex)”. Canny? Scots?

Bubble Bursting

          So, we’re in Glasgow for the two-week duration of COP 26, the latest of the United Nations’ climate emergency conferences – not because we’ve been invited, but because we haven’t. Climate disaster will affect everyone eventually and the outcome of the talks is too important to be left to national figureheads, who are not renowned for their selfless devotion to humanity’s welfare. A show of concern by the public – a metaphorical ‘kicking of arses’ – and the ensuing spotlight of publicity might lead to some progress in this respect.

          Not that “the public” includes everyone. When, for example, I told one of our neighbours back home where we were bound, he admitted to having no idea what I was talking about, despite the acres of news coverage that had preceded the event. On the other hand, he does know everything there is to know about home improvements, a pursuit to which he dedicates most of his days, despite the fact that our block is less than a metre above sea level. A flicker of dismay came over his face as I explained to him the potential futility of his activities. “But that won’t happen in our lifetime, will it?”, he said, hopefully. I shrugged, meaningfully.

          The phrase ‘living in a bubble’ has gained another meaning during this time of viral contagion, but its original definition remains: the tendency to live one’s life unaware of and unaffected by the lives of others. This is not a socially healthy trait but, for those who want it, corrective therapy is at hand. The recommended remedy for this self-isolating tendency is to experience the diversity of customs, philosophies and social norms by travelling (excluding via cruise ships, that is). Young people usually need no encouragement to set off on such journeys of exploration, but enthusiasm tends to wane in later life. We can become set in our ways too easily, so it is well to be reminded that ours is not the definitive point of view – and that neither is anyone else’s.

          Glasgow is a long way from Plymouth and, despite the shared attributes of a United Kingdom – currency, language and general customs – I was delighted to find on arrival that it maintains an individual and distinctive flavour. The grimy but grand stone buildings are currently basking in winter sunshine and the ambience on the streets is friendly. Ask for directions and you will get a fully engaged response and, though people for whom English is a foreign language might struggle to follow the pronunciation, patience is not strained. In fact, I overheard a shopkeeper criticise Boris Johnson’s speech for its conspicuously forced use of non-inclusive cultural metaphors that are inconsiderate of non-English speakers. Basically, the natives seem friendly and welcoming of the delegates, whether they are official or self-appointed, which I choose to interpret as a signal of solidarity from the denizens of this proudly socialist city.

          We are staying in a suburb that is well connected by train to the city centre. Having booked the apartment online months ago, before prices rocketed beyond our budget, we feel lucky to have it and are, therefore, tolerant of its shortcomings (it has obviously been fitted out by a less than competent DIY enthusiast). We also feel a bit guilty that delegations from small, sinking islands in the Pacific may be having to commute from Aberdeen each day. Still, for all those who made it, the hope is that being here does make a difference to the progress of discussions. The wondrous technology of video conferencing cannot yet convey all the subtleties of face-to-face interactions. The demonstrators on the streets may be limited to making a nuisance and holding their banners up to passing motorcades, but they are engaging with the process and pressing against a system that is presently on course to self-destruct. Their message is simple. We may live in many, separate bubbles, but they all co-exist within the Big One, Earth.